My wife, the painter,
says as she whips the
canvas with her brush —
In Bhutan they fear the
empty; evil creeps in &
fills it up the way
darkness conquers
the sky as the sun
sets in the unsuspecting
world.
Entropy it is — I said,
matter combusts
and scatters, the spaces,
like silence, mark the blasted.
And so, she continues --
to take up the palette
and draw on the wall
a castle on the mountain
the dance of the takins
a weave of colors,
is the act of the
free and righteous.
I bit my lips as I thought,
without speaking,
it is not like
the poet who
shelters the good
in silence.
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